Hitman: Born Again
by TLKFan
Summary: Wednesday night. He's not a local, but she is. They're both at crossroads... he was someone, but needs to be born again. This is a story of growth in a time of great uncertainty, and even greater change.
1. Born Again

Hitman

Born Again

* * *

The music was low and loud, the treble suppressed so that the dancers could speak softly when they stepped off the stage to speak to their fans.

Fans. That was a charitable way to describe them, the two dozen or so jeering faces in the crowd, waving fistfuls of cash in the air and wolf-whistling whenever one of the dancers popped it and locked it and then threw it back.

Now and then, one of the would walk up to the side of the stage. Slide a bill halfway into his pants or else hold it in his teeth. In this manner, he got either a face full or a crotch full of ass, or tits sometimes whenever the steel-eyed bouncer overseeing them all looked away.

They weren't supposed to do that. They weren't allowed to do that. Not because it was illegal, but because it suppressed their _own_ wages and the wages of other dancers. Let the guys cop a feel here and there, sure, but don't give away too much for free. Dancing on the stage and on the pole is great, and sure, a gal can make a living on those, but if you want real money, you have to get 'em into the private rooms and give 'em a private dance.

"Not easy to do _that_ on a Wednesday night," she said to herself as she sauntered onto the stage.

Her high heels made her gait a little slow, a little awkward. Worth it—they showed off her ass, made it jiggle with little effort from her. That was good—it had always been her weak point. She had always been a top heavy woman.

With that in mind, she began her routine. Spin around, whip your hair, it's dyed blonde just the way the guys like it; climb the pole and then lean over and make eye contact with a man in the front row. Just one at a time. Convince him that you're dancing for him, just for him, and he'll be putty in your hands later.

Except… wait, no, he was _that_ kind of a guy. Fuck him. Not to be racist or anything, but if there was one type of guy that didn't tip and tried to get a lot more than a feel, it was _that_ kind of a guy.

She continued the motion down the pole and then dropped to all fours on the stage. Rested on her knees and elbows and thrust her hips downward, grinding against an imaginery partner. She whipped her hair back and looked over a bare shoulder at… him.

Something about him was… different. Almost off. It wasn't that he was threatening, or creepy, or vacant, he was just… almost, but not quite human, and he had fallen into the uncanny valley. Something about that pale skin and those glimmering blue eyes was just _different_.

Fuck. The dance.

She straightened back up and spun around the pole again. Snaked a hand up her bare back and untied the skimpy strings holding her top up. Just as the music finished, she flung it into the crowd to pleased cheering.

Nude from the waist up, she sauntered down from the stage into the crowd. Ignored the eye contact and accented solicitation from _that_ guy and immediately began to chat up a man with white hair and a blazer, the uniform of a lonely retiree with too much money.

At the same time, waitress spent a few moments cleaning the stage and the pole with a cloth and then it was _her_ turn.

Isabella. That bitch. She walked onto the stage confidently, chin and tits high in the air, and immediately all eyes were on her. Even that poor old lonely retiree who she had been talking to paused, mid-word, and didn't speak again, not when Isabella started to shake it.

Fucking Isabella.

She collected her top from his lap and started to storm off toward the locker room. But then she remembered… then she looked back at the bar, at the far side of the room. He was still there, sipping a short squat glass of… something, watching the dance with half a mind.

She hesitated for a moment. Then made her way toward him.

"Very interesting dance you did there," he said as she got closer. He wasn't even looking at her. "That time when you got on the floor… you were a ballerina."

"I—yeah—how'd you know?" she said.

Finally he turned to face her. Fixed her with a gaze for a moment, a gaze that didn't drop below her neckline.

"Just a guess," he said softly. He then took a sip of his drink—winked at her—and turned back toward the stage.

"I—ahem, haha, well, good guess," she said. Get your bearing back, girl! "Uhm… so, I haven't seen you around here before," she said.

"No," he said. "I'm not from around here."

"I didn't think so. If you're at a strip club on a Wednesday night, you're either passing through, or you're… well…" she glanced back at the stage, where _that_ guy was showering Isabella with the majority of his paycheck, by the look of it.

He smiled. Just a little upward twitch of the corners of his lips.

"I said I'm not from around here. But I'm not passing through, either." He looked at her again, and again, his gaze didn't dip below her neckline.

"Where are my manners?" he said. "Let me buy you a drink, Miss…?"

"No names on the first night," she responded instantly with a grin. "It's the no sex on the first date rule for strippers. And I'll have a… whatever you're having. What _are_ you having?" she said.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and leaned over, inwardly congratulating herself. Small talk, _and_ she'd earned a drink. A little more and she'd have him—

She recoiled from the acridity in her nose and began to cough. He smiled again, almost expectantly, and placed a hand on her upper back.

"An appletini it is," he said to the bartender. "Don't beat yourself up over it. I don't think I've met a single woman outside of Mexico who can stand this."

"What _is_ that shit?" she gasped. "It smells like… scotch and tequila, mixed with campfire ash."

"Clever," he said. "It's mezcal. A Mexican agave spirit… tequila is made from blue agave, whereas this is made from espadin. That's where the smokey flavor comes from. This particular bottle," he continued, "was aged in oak. That's why it tastes like scotch. Don't worry," he grinned. "It's an acquired taste."

"Well, here's to hoping I never acquire it," she said, taking her appletini from the bartender. "Cheers."

The clicked glasses. On the stage, Isabella's dance was finishing. As she sauntered off stage, she no more than had to crook her finger to get a gaping man to follow her into the private rooms at the back of the club.

"Say, um… Mr.…"

He wasn't looking at her. Fuck.

"Hey," she said a little more assertively. "Would you like a dance?"

"I've already seen one," he said. "You were very good, by the way. Just needs practice… plenty of practice."

"No, I mean… you know, like a _private_ dance," she said. "Just a quiet room for the two of us… and yes, you can touch as much as you want. Within reason," she said.

He smiled. Looked her up and down for the first time.

"Thanks," he said, "but no thanks. It was nice talking to you."

He stood up, placing a twenty dollar bill on the bar and started to leave—but she caught his sleeve.

"Wait," she said, looking up at him. Her chest was thrust out so that he could see her cleavage and the submissive, almost begging way she looked at him.

And the way he looked back at her was… inhumane. It wasn't vacant or amused, it was… void. Slightly annoyed maybe. But that look said that she… meant nothing.

"I'll dance for you," she said, "on the house."

His brow furrowed the slightest bit. Her, dance for him… for free? Why?

He must have decided that he wanted to know. Because he nodded once, just once, and allowed her to lead him, by the hand, into the quiet, darkened area at the back of the club.

* * *

He half-sat, half-reclined on a leather couch that had just been cleaned with Lysol. Extra strength Lysol, he noted. He'd used the same to clean… other things, through his career.

The posture couldn't be good for his back, he thought dully. But this was temporary. Just a few songs and she'd get bored. Even now he was looking away from her, his hands limp next to his body as she sat down on him and began to press against him aggressively.

She had no effect on him. But he was having an effect on her. He wasn't being awkward or creepy, not in the usual way anyway. But women like her, they were used to male attention, they expected male attention. And that he wasn't giving her any… that was what had her intrigued.

"So," he said, a moment before she could speak, "tell me about yourself."

"Well, I… I'm from around here. Really, I'm actually from around here. Born and raised."

"That's nice," he said. "You must know the area very well. Do you travel very often?"

"Not really." She placed her hands on his knees so that she could throw it back, just like Isabella did—no, he still wasn't looking at her.

"I'm just… busy, you know? I mean, I've been to the beach, and the city and all that, but besides that, I just don't have a lot of time."

"College must keep you busy," he said.

"Yeah, exactly."

He grinned. She heard—turned—but he was still looking away.

"You haven't been to college since 2014, when you dropped out."

"What the—how the Hell did you know that?"

"The tattoo on your thigh," he said. "Your artist tried to undo the mascot, but didn't do a good job. Judging by the fading, it's about five years old. So, you went to college, but dropped out in 2014. Since then, I'm guessing you've worked here… and maybe at the Starbucks across the street. Did you ever make manager?"

"Yes, I mean—no, I mean—how do you do that?" she sputtered.

Now she was facing him. She remembered herself—straddled him—and caressed her chest with her hands, giving him a seductive look. Now he looked at her. But there was no lust in his gaze.

"I've had… practice," he said.

There was silence for a moment.

"I can tell that… life isn't going the way you want, is it?" he said. When she nodded, he continued. "That's how things can be… if you don't manage your life diligently, you'll end up… as a nobody, in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing. And you can't rest on your laurels," he said. "Just because you _were_ someone, doesn't mean you _are_ someone. Even if you've reached the pinnacle of yourself… it's just the pinnacle of your current self. And you have to find a way to be reborn, or else it's just a slow, lingering decline until you're in the grave."

He paused. Shrugged.

"Then again, at least if you _were_ someone, at some point… you'll have memories to look back on. I'm guessing this job gives you quite a few memories, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I meet a lot of interesting people," she said. She took her top off, raised her arms above her head and shook herself—but he didn't glance below her neckline. "And I get to talk to them, too. I know more about their personal lives than their… wives, or children, or friends, or therapists."

"Fascinating," he said. And that was all.

Again there was silence.

"This isn't a career, you know," she blurted out. "It's just… something to do while I figure things out. And it pays well."

"I'm sure it does," he said, "when you're not giving dances away."

"Well, that was a one time thing," she said. "For the most interesting person I've ever met. Ever."

Something in his gaze softened, just a little bit. But now the song was finishing… a few more songs, and it would be her turn to take the stage again. Sensing this, he started to stand, and so did she. In the process, a little silver cross he wore under his collar fell into view.

"I'd never have pegged you for the religious type," she said. "Forget where we are, it just… doesn't seem your style."

"I need faith," he said simply. "We all do, and we make leaps of faith all the time. For example, I have faith when I cross the road, that traffic will respect the magical painted lines and colored lights. And you have faith," he leaned forward, "that I won't end you… here and now."

There was something in the way he looked at her now. Something petrifying, that froze her to her very core. "The-the bouncer would stop you. I'd scream—and he'd stop you," she heard herself say.

"Is that so?" he said.

He smiled. It wasn't an expression of amusement or happiness. Tucked his cross back into his shirt and followed her back into the club proper. They walked side by side as she tried to think of something to say, anything to say.

"It was nice to meet you," he said. He paused. Turned and faced her with something almost like concern on his face.

"Take care of yourself, alright? And don't let life pass you by. Seize the reigns… and if you perish, perish in flames. At least that way, you can leave a mark on the world, and the world will know that you _tried_.

"Do _not_ be nothing. Do _not_ settle for anything."

"I… yes," she said breathlessly.

He looked her up and down. Reached out as if to fix her hair, or her top… but thought better of it and pulled his hand back. And then he turned to leave.

"Wait, I don't even know your name," she said, catching his sleeve again. This time she didn't have to emphasize the submissive desperation on her face.

"Well I ever see you again?" she asked.

"I doubt it," he practically whispered. "Goodbye, Eva," he said.

He pulled his sleeve from her grasp. Fixed the cuff with a funny golden emblem that looked almost like a fleur de lys and walked out of the club without looking back.

He was someone. Or he had been. But now he was being born again, and there was pain that he would have go through to do that.

And so, too, would she.


	2. Moksha

Hitman

Moksha

Of a pile of television sets, all jumbled together, all sprouting as many cables as they did rats, only a handful worked. And of these, only one was tuned to an English channel. The others were Hebrew, Kurdish, Persian, but not Arabic.

Not around here. Around here, you only spoke Arabic if you wanted to get your ass beat. Or shot.

So it said something about the size of a man's balls when he wore a black-bordered red triangle patch on his shoulder. That was the symbol of nothing less than the Republican Guard, and many in this neighborhood had lost family, friends, fathers to their legions. And yet the man who wore the triangle… did nothing more than grin at the TV and take another drink.

The feed changed to a blurred imagine of boots hopping off of a boat and onto a dark metal surface rising from the ocean. There was yelling and the barrel of an M-4 in a man's face, and then the man who wore the red triangle got to his feet.

"That was me. I did that—me!" he yelled. "You hear me? That was me!"

His voice echoed off of the bare dank walls of the establishment. Only a buzzing fly answered him.

"Huh. Figures." He finished his drink. Shrugged the strap of his machinegun so it hugged his chest a little more tightly.

"Try and toot your own horn and it just echoes off the fuckin' wall."

"Good thing the walls around here have ears."

He turned on his heel and lifted his machinegun—but it was just an old man. An old haggard man, half doubled over, ambling by on a cane. He was dressed in rags nearly as tattered as his dreadlocks, and his face was coated in a funny chalky residue.

"Figures," the man with the triangle patch said. "Toot your own horn, and the only one listening is some hippie."

"If that's what you think, I'm flattered," the old man said.

He stood up, straight and surprisingly tall, and made his way to the bar. Reached over and poured himself a few fingers of scotch.

"Careful, old man," the man with the triangle patch said. "Laphroaig… that shit tastes like ass. And ash."

"I've tasted plenty of ash in my day," the old man said. He sipped his drink. Closed his eyes. Swallowed. Half-smiled.

"So," he said, motioning at the TV. "That was you, was it? The one who stormed the submarine and confiscated the last illegal cocaine entering America?"

"That was me," the man with the triangle patch said. "The night before that pig Hogg made it legal… that was me. That was when I was something—when we were something—now being ex-DEA is as bad as being ex-Republican Guard. So what did I do? I became an ex-DEA-Republican Guard."

He laughed and flung his glass into a wall where it shattered into a million pieces. The old man just watched.

"It sounds like you've had a busy life," he said.

"I have. It wasn't always like this, but these past few years…" the man with the patch shook his head. "I've been all over the place—to places that don't have names—and I've seen bad things. Done bad things, too." He shivered. "But in the end… I wouldn't trade it for anything else. Because I'm someone now—or I was. Until they fuckin' took it all away from me, and now I'm here, a…"

He smiled. "I'm a nobody, in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing. And you're the only one I've got to talk to. A fuckin' hippie."

"Charming," the old man said, toasting him with a raised glass. "Charming."

The man with the triangle patch twitched. Stormed up to him and slapped the glass from his fingers. The old man simply turned to him and… smiled. The motherfucker smiled.

"What the Hell is wrong with you—are you stupid, or insane? Or just doped up?" the man with the triangle patch snarled.

"Me, doped up? Certainly not," the old man said. "But you are. You're high on earthly rewards… money, power, sex, prestige. And now that you're coming down… you can't take it."

Something flashed across his face. He reached out toward the man with the triangle patch… then thought better of it and retracted his hands.

"You've been seduced by attachments… sucked into the black hole of Grihastha. But it's temporary… and now that it's ending, you… don't know what to do."

"I do know what to do," the man with the triangle patch said. "I can reinvent myself. I _have_ to reinvent myself—to be born again."

"You can," the old man said. "And then, when that comes to an end, you can do it again… and again, and again, a hundred times over, a thousand times over, and then when you die, you can die with your eyes open and be reborn and… then what?"

The man with the triangle patch shook his head. Shrugged.

"Fuck knows," he said. "What's the alternative?"

"Liberation," the old man said. "Eternal, everlasting _freedom_. I'm on my way there now. And, for the right person, I could wait up a bit… if she's ready and willing to join me."

He looked at the man with the triangle patch's eyes for the first time. And that was when the man with the triangle patch saw the same electrifying blue that he had seen once before, a lifetime ago.

"Eva," the old man said. "It's been a very long time. You must have a lot to tell me… and I want to hear it all."

She nodded breathlessly. Paused—then removed her weapons, her machinegun, her pistol, her grenades, her suicide vest, her knives, until she was unarmed. Then she removed her jacket, adorned with the black-bordered triangle, the smiling grinning cartoonish frog, and other, less ambiguous symbols.

She took the tie out of her hair. Let it fall loose and free and looked at the old man in the eye.

"This time," she said, "are you going to tell me your name?"

He smiled. Shook his head. "That's a worldly possession I never had to give up… The place I was raised, they didn't give us names. They gave us numbers.

"Mine was 47."

Eva smiled.

"Well, that explains a lot."


End file.
